Where the Winks Are

When I was first pregnant with twins, I was determined to do everything right. I bought a notebook to record my eating so my doctor would see that my nutrition savvy alone would be enough for me to win “mother of the year” in the delivery room. In one column I wrote the date and time of day, and in the other I wrote what I ate — blueberries for breakfast and salads for lunch. Then everything changed. 

            I was sitting in my home office one morning early in my first trimester when I became terribly nauseous. Minutes later I got sick and continued to do so multiple times a day until I gave birth. Needless to say, my notebook went by the wayside as I spent most of my time hunched over the toilet. 

            Nothing would stay down except junk food — think Pop-Tarts and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese (the super cheap kind). When I explained this to my doctor, he told me not to worry about it because all he cared about was calories. “You just need to take in calories,” he said. 

            I feel like I’m in that same place again sans the Pop-Tarts. No, I’m not pregnant, but I am going through a tremendous life change, and it’s not in any shape or form the way I planned it.  

            When I resigned from my job in May, I had such grand plans for the summer. The Tots and I were going to play tennis, visit museums, swim at the pool and spend a stress-free week at the beach, a week where mom didn’t have to worry about deadlines for once. 

            Two-and-a-half weeks after my last day at work, my mom was diagnosed with cancer, and we were told that Hospice would be best for her. A few days ago, we admitted her into a nursing home, something my dad and I never wanted to do, and something that he still can’t digest. 

            Now our summer days are organized by visits with my mom, meetings with her care team, updates to family members and phone calls. Sometimes The Tots go with me, other times they hang out with their other grandparents or dear friends. The fun I promised my children is scarce, and I have horrible guilt about that. Our beach trip has been cancelled because there’s no way we can leave during this time, and we don’t want to, as the oncologist gave my mom four to six weeks. Of course, we have no idea how that will play out, but we want to be here for it — all of it, no matter how hard it is. 

            During the past two weeks I feel like I’ve been thrown into the Olympics for Winks of Goodness. Dealing with my dad’s denial and devastation about my mother’s diagnosis, which is understandable after being married for 60 years (together for 64), and his cognitive issues can be maddening, leaving any signs of goodness few and far between. Regardless, I keep looking because I need a handrail to hold as I walk this journey for my mom. 

            I see winks from my children, as their 9-year-old minds try to understand what’s going on. I see it when my son pushes my mom in a wheelchair to the nursing home’s beauty shop so mom can get her hair done. I see it when my daughter pulls the covers up over my mother. I see it when they converse with friends of the family they don’t know but who have heard all about them. And I see it in the staff at the nursing home. 

            The day we checked in, I went out into the hallway to get some air. A nurse named Charlene saw me and walked up to me just like the nice cool girl does to the new girl at school in an ABC Afterschool Special (those were the absolute best).

            Charlene could tell that I was trying to take it all in, so she gave me a casual tour of the place, informing me that the next day was Superhero Wednesday. Her smile was such a beautiful sight during such a dismal day. 

            Mom has been there a week now, and she is receiving excellent care, but my dad still can’t digest she’s there, and sometimes I feel like his angst is worse than the cancer. It’s a huge adjustment for both of them. (I believe the clinical term is “transition.”) Regardless of what you call it, it’s heartbreaking and beyond frustrating at the same time. We often say hurtful things to each other, and at one point over the weekend, I threw my Corkcicle across the parking lot out of anger. (Fun fact, the Corkcicle only suffered a small dent, so these tumblers really are worth the money. They should advertise the fact that you can throw them on asphalt in fits of rage and they’ll be just fine, as it truly is a selling point. Also, please note that no one was injured.)

            During last night’s visit, dad and I had a good conversation, but it was about to take a turn into “Tense Town” when a social worker suddenly brought in a white poodle. Truth be told, I’ve never been crazy about poodles, but this poodle was different. Flaunting her frizzy ears and floral scarf, Sasha (how sassy is that name?) walked up to me like we’d been friends for years. If a dog can give the expression, “I know how you feel, sister,” this dog did. 

            I quickly picked her up so mom could pet her, and in seconds, mom’s magical smile appeared as she began petting Sasha’s chin. For a few minutes, the stress of the situation subsided, and all we could focus on was this little dog. It felt so good. 

            The social worker promised to bring Sasha back on Thursday, and I hope I’m there when she does because that dog has magic powers, even though she refuses to wear bows on her ears. She’s a walking Wink of Goodness, and I’m so grateful she walked into our lives. 

NOTE: If you are visiting my parents, please do not mention this blog, as it would only confuse the situation. They are not very computer savvy these days. Thank you.